


Anxieties

by vertual



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, He'll be ok I hope, Light Angst, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 11:10:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7312669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vertual/pseuds/vertual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sleep isn't easy when you're arguing with yourself, even less so when you're arguing over your worth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anxieties

**Author's Note:**

> I've been thinking a lot lately about Sherlock's poor view of himself. It hurts me. But, as someone who suffers from anxiety and depression, I do see some of myself in him.

The slow, steady breathing next to him does little to slow his mind for sleep, even though he knows his need for it is reaching desperation. She points out the dark circles under his eyes each morning with the same result: a shrug and a half-formed response about how he couldn’t get comfortable or couldn’t switch off. It wasn’t untrue to say, but it said very little and he knew it frayed her nerves as much as his own.

A fact which made his sleepless nights all the worse, because what kept him up was not a lumpy mattress or a pressing case, but an ever growing feeling of guilt.

It used to be easy for Sherlock to distinguish his own thoughts from the thoughts of others; he was not as easy a chameleon, not as swayed by opinions, as everybody else. Recently, however, the line began to blur and he felt more and more that the deprecating remarks that seemed to come from the voices of his brother and his friends were certainly his own.

He tries to tell himself that he’s done well, and he is interrupted. Only halfway back to believing he is worth something before the memories drill upward to the surface. The sting of Molly’s hand against his cheek and the betrayal in her voice, the reminder that of course he hasn’t done enough to have earned a place by her side. Years of being a manipulative user and damaging the parts of himself she still loved could be atoned for by making her a permanent crutch and clinging to her until she decides to throw him off.

But no, he tries to argue, that isn’t what they are. She does dote on him, and not because of his demanding nature. Molly acknowledged early on in their acquaintanceship that being with him would be unhealthy with how he belittled and used her. Looked down on as a meek girl at school and institutionally underestimated as a woman in her chosen field, Molly never vocalised the attention she wished for and now has. He does whatever he can now to make her know how much she truly is to him. He has always seen in her a need to be needed, and never feels safer than when he is looking up at and to her. Sherlock never sought to be human, much less a lover, but any opportunity he sees to show her just how highly he regards her both professionally and personally is an opportunity taken. From deducing and preparing the meal she craves for dinner to keeping her in bed after a week on her feet, Sherlock knows he has endeavoured to do his best by her. He tells her he adores her, she tells him he is loved, and they both know it to be true.

It doesn’t stop his mind from pulling him down. He still lies awake at night remembering the wrong he’s done, cataloguing it against the good, trying in vain to make them balance because damn it all, he needs to know he isn’t as horrid a person as he is led to believe by his own traitorous demons. The Watsons are an easy list: John and Mary, happy, safe, adventurous; Rosamund, growing and learning, protected, spoiled. Mycroft: always strenuous, slights forgiven but not forgotten. Molly… He still isn’t certain he deserves her. He wonders if he ever truly will.

He can feel that it will stop soon. He has grown too exhausted. The great Sherlock Holmes, defeated by his own self, will let the cycle slow to a halt until the next time the cogs are greased. Feeling Molly’s warmth beside him, he pries his eyes away from the plain white ceiling above him and turns to his side, sliding over to wrap himself around her sleeping form, burying his nose in her strawberry-scented hair. His mind doesn’t quiet, but with his last ounce of energy he commands himself to sleep, and as he covers Molly’s hand with his own, feeling the ring she refuses to take off for anything, Sherlock finally succumbs to the weight of his heavy eyes.


End file.
